


Of Science and Fiction

by APurpleAvacado



Category: Bleach
Genre: Ilforte Grantz, Ilforte Granz, M/M, Minor Character Death, Szayel Aporro Grantz, Szayel-centric, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APurpleAvacado/pseuds/APurpleAvacado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Szayel really wanted to do was get on with his work. Unfortunately, Las Noches is rife with distractions, and there is always something rubbing Szayel the wrong way these days. Szayel quite firmly blames Grimmjow and Ilforte.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out with the Old

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a re-write of one I started many, many years ago and posted on Fanfiction.net under the same title. The original fanfiction is written in the first person and would be a good place to go if people really wanted to get inside Szayel's head. My pen name for that website is APurpleAvacado, for those of you who would be interested in trying to find that story. Being the original one, there are six chapters, so it's much further along than this, but remains unfinished.
> 
> Basically, I have started to rewrite this fic because from the point I was at in the original, I began to realise that some scenes would be handled much better in the third person perspective, but that is not to say I won't go back and finish the original (because I love being inside Szayel's head), but I won't make any promises to do that any time soon. I'm just really inspired for Bleach at the moment and this is my way of getting back into the swing of things after what was basically a five-year hiatus in regards to this fic. Life has a way of doing that. I have never fallen out of love with this fic though, I can say that much.
> 
> I'm also just putting this message here because I really don't want anyone to think I'm ripping off a completely different author, because that is most certainly not the case. I'm still me and both versions of the story are mine.

Las Noches, the veritable city forever bathed in night, it's high walls and solid presence a great contrast to the endless shifting sands and inconstant landscape. Inside great stone walls, the arrancar dwelt, separated from the world outside, believing themselves safe from the horrors beyond. Yet one man believed that was not the case.

Aizen Sousuke, ruler of the arrancar, believed that a breach was possible. Szayel Aporro Grantz, reflected on that fact, frowning as he absently counted the tiles as he walked along one of the many corridors of Las Noches, although he did not miss the way some of his kin gave him wide berth as they passed him. Under any other circumstance, he would have laughed.

Ordinarily, Aizen's request would have been a trifling one – he wanted what would essentially be a spirit-based shield, or barrier, to be placed around Las Noches in order to prevent the enemy from infiltrating the fortress. Szayel also realised he had not specified that the shield was to be created with spirit energy, but also knew that having assigned Szayel the task, that he had just that in mind. Szayel's hobby was analysing reiatsu, knowing two simple facts that many seemed to ignore. The first being that one must know ones enemy, and the second: observation is key.

In regard to one thing. Shinigami were practically dependent on kidou, which was essentially solidified reiatsu, to put it in layman's terms. Szayel knew of course, or he certainly felt it to be the case, that Aizen was somehow testing him, for therein lay the challenge; how do you keep an enemy who can utilise the very tool you are using to keep them out, from simply breaking through the barrier? All they would need, at the very least, was some long-winded, unbearably irritating little chant.

Rather generously, Aizen no doubt thought, he had given Szayel one month to figure that out for himself. With a certain bitterness, Szayel thought that perhaps the task was not so impossible as it seemed – merely difficult, and in many respects, Szayel welcomed the intellectual challenge. It had been so long since he had needed to truly contemplate a task, and so long since Aizen had even required his services. The scientist had been beginning to feel neglected. It was just a shame that Szayel could not do these things at his own leisure. He worked so much better when he was able to take his time and enjoy his work.

So deep in thought was he that Szayel did not notice, until the collar of his shirt was seized and he cried out as he was pushed bodily into the wall behind him that danger lurked nearby. Szayel opened his eyes as the lingering burst of reiatsu faded, so he could look into the narrowed eyes of his assailant. “Grimmjow,” Szayel said, scowling, golden eyes narrowing.

Grimmjow's scowl mirrored his own and his look of disdain did not go unnoticed. “You're comin' with me,” Grimmjow demanded, gesturing behind him with a thumb.

Szayel raised a brow, reaching up to wrapped slender, gloved fingers around Grimmjow's hand attempting to force Grimmjow to release him. When he realised that Grimmjow was not going to let go, Szayel stilled, choosing this time to indulge the Sexta Espada. “I'm truly flattered,” Szayel began, frowning. “But you're not my type-”

“Shut up,” Grimmjow snapped as he turned, yanking Szayel along behind him. Szayel grunted faintly, hunch over awkwardly as Grimmjow disregarded the way the Octava struggled to keep up with Grimmjow's quickened pace. Again, Szayel tried to pull himself free, but soon gave up with a resentful scowl. He could not, in that moment have fought back knowing he was not much of a fighter in the first place, and knowing he would have been ill-prepared for the confrontation. Although unafraid of the Sexta, Szayel was wary of his raw strength in comparison to his own. Szayel was not naïve. Szayel would have to carefully engineer his victory if he were ever to face the Sexta alone.

Szayel click his tongue in irritation, “Would you let me up, Grimmjow,” Szayel snapped after some time being dragged along behind his neanderthal of a superior. “I will follow you of my own accord.”

Grimmjow released Szayel with a scoff, shoving his hands back into his pocket as Szayel straightened up. He did not stop or slow down, but the Octava followed along as promised, wanting more than anything to get out of the entire interaction unscathed. Neither spoke, uninterested in small-talk, and soon enough found their way to their destination. Grimmjow's Wing in the central part of Las Noches. He, unlike Szayel, did not prefer or even require solitude and space to work, so Aizen gifted him with an entire collection of rooms, for both himself and his fracción several floors above the communal areas on the ground floor.

Things could get rowdy, but Szayel suspected that was exactly the reason Grimmjow wanted to be so near what could be considered the centre of life in Las Noches. It was not unlike either Grimmjow or even Nnoitra to miss an opportunity to throw their weight around.

After a long trek up a seemingly never-ending staircase, Grimmjow led Szayel toward his wing, throwing the large, heavy wooden door open with ease, and marched inside, without sparing Szayel a backward glance. The scientist followed until they came to another door, which was different to the others in that it was larger, and the frame nowhere near as plain. The smallest motifs of barren, dead trees were carved into the wood, and the door to the room itself depicted jungle cats sitting or lounging in those trees, gazing languidly down at the prey below, along the bottom of the door. The other doors in the room showed similar scenes, although none were as fine. Szayel assumed they belonged to Grimmjow's little underlings, or were communal spaces. There were too many rooms even for the number of people living within the exceptionally large wing.

Szayel was honestly surprised at the refined nature of the décor, although a quick glance at a side table along the wall behind him suggested that the furniture was sure to be like that of the rest of Las Noches – white, blocky and under-stimulating. Szayel sighed faintly as Grimmjow pushed open the door to his room. Of course the furniture would be dull. Given Grimmjow's temper, there was no point in giving him nice things.

Lingering near the doorway, Szayel glanced around, making sure to remain aware of Grimmjow's movements at all times even as he did so. Despite guessing quite correctly that the room belonged to Grimmjow, Szayel withheld a gasp, not having made the connection that Grimmjow had led him to his personal chambers. For some reason, the thought had never occurred to him hat he might one day see Grimmjow's bedroom. It was nothing special, Szayel thought. It was rather dull in its simplicity, a table and two chairs shoved into the far left corner of the room and to the right near the doorway was another table stacked high with miscellaneous objects.

Szayel's eyes widened in surprise when his eyes landed upon a particular object, and he wandered over, drawn to it. A book, Szayel realised. Shocked at the thought that Grimmjow could even read. Of course, Szayel's astonishment at the prospect dwindled somewhat at the sight of a thick layer of dust that sat on the cover. Obviously he didn't read a lot then, Szayel thought, frowning.

As he turned his attention back to the room, Sayel couldn't help but smirk at the title of the book – obviously fictional. Beside the bed on the far side of the room directly opposite the door, there was nothing of merit beside the windows. Three long and thin slits in the wall that stretched from floor to ceiling. Honestly, the scientist would have disliked the distinct lack of light coming in through the windows, but at least the rays of the admittedly fabricated sunlight did not even touch the bed. Clearly, like himself, Grimmjow did not like his sleep disrupted in any way.

Not many arrancar bothered with beds. Most merely napped on large, cushions, beanbags or sofas. Sleep was more of a necessity for arrancar than it was for Hollows, given their somewhat more human-like appearance and change in their biology. They did not require as much sleep as humans, however, just a little more than hollows. Szayel had honestly taken Grimmjow for the napping type. Not even Starrk bothered with a bed, as far as Szayel knew.

Standing by the bed, Grimmjow watched Szayel, glaring all the while, “when you're done looking through my shit,” he ground out impatiently, leaving the sentence to hang in their air. A simple warning to stop.

Looking at Grimmjow, Szayel noticed Grimmjow's eyes landing on the book in Szayel's hands, and opened his mouth to speak. Of course, the scientist took this as an invitation to interrupt, smirking. “You read?” he asked, chuckling airily as he meandered a little further into the room.

He growled at Szayel, and the scientist froze in place, eyes wide and a hand placed on his chest in mock fear. Grimmjow stalked up to him and yanked the book from his grasp ignoring Szayel's' faux frightened gasp, turning to slam it back down on the table. “Starrk went to the human world once. Couldn't fuckin' help himself.”

Grimmjow's head snapped toward Szayel when all the scientist could do was acknowledge his words with a distracted him, watching as the scientist moved over to the bed, not having noticed the bump in the bedding until now. Szayel didn't wait as he pulled back the covers, the shock clearly written all over his face at the sight of long blond hair and a familiar face. “Ilforte,” Szayel muttered, taking note of his brother's sweaty brow. He leant closer, trying to get a closer look. It was strange, seeing his brother like this, his reiatsu so weak it was no surprises that Szayel hadn't noticed his presence.

Pulling off a glove, Szayel pressed the back of his hand to Ilforte's forehead, frowning when he realised that Szayel was warm to the touch. His breathing was shallow and he was struggling. That much Szayel could tell from his wheezing breaths. Briefly, the scientist glanced at Grimmjow and then back to his brother. It was unheard of, for a hollow, or even an arrancar to fall ill. Not once had Szayel encountered such a thing. His thoughts were however interrupted when Grimmjow once again spoke.

“This is what I needed you for.”

Szayel stood quickly, dropping the sheet as he turned, bearly containing his shock when he turned to find Grimmjow a hair's breadth away from him, looking almost sombre. “I'm not a doctor,” Szayel stated, releasing a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

Grimmjow scoffed as Szayel turned back to his brother, distracted by Ilforte's weak but wildly fluctuating reiatsu, despite being painfully aware of Grimmjow's close proximity. He missed the way Grimmjow's gaze flickered lower briefly, eyeing Szayel as he bent over the bed, examining his brother further. “Doctor, scientist, what's the difference?” he asked, haughtily.

“Well for one,” Szayel muttered coldly, “a doctor actually cars about his patient's well-being.” His eyes wandered over Ilforte's face again, watching him shiver and seeing his eyelids flicker restlessly. For a moment, Szayel looked thoughtful, having assumed his brother to have been unconscious. “Why don't you take him to the medical wing?”

“I ain't a fuckin' retard,” Grimmjow snapped at Szayel's back. The scientist's face suggested a certain level of scepticism regarding the statement. “I'm already tried that. They can't do shit for 'im.”

Unimpressed, Szayel stood up straight again and whirled round to face his colleague. “So instead you choose to enlist me,” Szayel started, prodding Grimmjow pointedly in the chest. Despite the situation, however, Szayel appeared quite composed, his expression cool. “When you know perfectly well that I have better things to do than make a fuss over something so trivial as this?”

Grimmjow grunted to the affirmative, and Szayel's expression darkened further. “How selfish of you, Grimmjow,” Szayel continued, his irritation seeping into his voice now.

Grimmjow snapped, growling as he seized the collar of Szayel's shirt, yanking him closer. Szayel's gasp was sharp and the alarm in his golden eyes appeared genuine for the first time that day. “Can you help him or not?”

Of course, Szayel seemed to realise this and scowled, his frustration at being man-handled obvious. “He's _dying_ , Grimmjow. Or haven't you noticed?” Szayel waited until he felt Grimmjow's grip on his clothes loosened before he nudged his hand out of the way and took the opportunity to straighten himself out again. “His reiatsu is fading and he is weakening in physical strength by the second. Care to tell me how long this has been going on, precisely?”

“'Bout a week,” Grimmjow muttered, looking off to the side, somewhere near Ilforte's head. “I took 'im to the medical wing three days ago,” he told Szayel apparently unable, or unwilling to meet his harsh gaze. “He suddenly just collapsed, for no reason at all.”

“Well, you had better say your goodbyes then,” Szayel said suddenly, his yes narrowing critically when Grimmjow suddenly looked up at him, shocked. “I doubt he will make it through the week, and from the looks of things, even that is an optimistic assessment. Now if you don't mind,” he continued, attempting to step away from Grimmjow and toward the door.

Grimmjow's jaw clenched tightly and he grabbed Szayel's arm tightly, halting him in his tracks. “Hey-”

Szayel held up his hand, effectively silencing the sexta. “I do wonder,” Szayel said, watching Grimmjow carefully as he touched the rim of his glasses. It was an unconscious gesture, and unnecessary, given that they were quite firmly fixed in place. “Did my brother mean something to you?”

He watched Grimmjow visibly hesitate and in that moment, extracted himself from Grimmjows grasp. “He was a good fuck,” Grimmjow muttered after a second, stepping away from the octava. Szayel was quietly relieved a Grimmjow wandered over to the windows, although he took a moment to glance at Ilforte's face, which had given no indication that he had even heard their conversation. He supposed Ilforte's senses had been dulled quite nicely by the sickness.

Ilforte, in Szayel's experience, had always been emotional, and he knew that Ilforte was unlikely to have given himself to the sexta in such an intimate way without having feelings for the man. It was almost sad to hear Grimmjow speaking of the relationship Ilforte must have assumed they were in so lightly, as if it were no more than a casual fling. The whole scenario was not in the least bit surprising to the octava.

“Considering my schedule,” Szayel said after a significant pause, watching Grimmjow glare out of the window, though at what, Szayel couldn't say. “I can't do anything to help,” he told Grimmjow pointedly. “You should have come to me sooner.”

“So he'll die?” Grimmjow asked, turning his icy gaze onto Szayel.

Szayel nodded, solemnly, “most likely.”

Szayel saw, more then he felt Grimmjow move – Grimmjow appearing before him less than a fraction of a second after a short burst of reiatsu filled the air. His gaze narrowed for a moment, only for them to widen a moment later when Grimmjow's hand found its way into his hair, yanking him forward sharply. Szayel's cry of shock and pain was muffled when Grimmjow's lips smashed roughly against his own.

“Fine,” Grimmjow growled against Szayel's lips, shoving his tongue into Szayel's mouth without preamble, exploring his mouth with his tongue. Szayel seemed frozen in that moment, simply allowing it to happen, shutting his eyes. “If I can't have him,” Grimmjow began, “you'll do.”

Szayel's eyes flew open at that, and he moved then, forcing himself away from Grimmjows lips, panting slightly. “I will _not_ be a replacement for my brother!” he shouted, wincing only slightly when he felt that hand tighten in his hair again. “Perhaps you had better lower your standards some and find someone more like Ilforte to warm your bed.”

“You're his brother,” Grimmjow said with a smirk, drawing nearer to Szayel and forcing the scientist's back into the wall. “How much closer can I get?” he asked rhetorically, snickering fainting and he leant in for another rough kiss, biting Szayel's lip viciously, drawing blood. He lapped at it almost affectionately as Szayel whimpered momentarily, more from the shock of it than actual pain.

In the next moment, Szayel found himself being shoved to the floor, his shirt practically being ripped from his body in one fluid movement. He cried out, landing with a grunt. Grimmjow did not waste a second in following after him, pushing Szayel into the ground as he kissed him again, more softly than before, his rough, warm hands trailing over Szayel's exposed chest. Despite that softness however, Szayel did not miss the quiet dominance in every gesture that Grimmjow made.

When Grimmjow pulled away, Szayel met his eyes. Szayel resented the fact he could not escape his situation, or likely not without harm in any case, and he had work to do. Injury would only cause unnecessary delays. He found his situation abhorrent, but nevertheless, reached up slowly, wrapping his arms around Grimmjow's neck to pull him closer, wanting. It had been some time since he last indulged.

Grimmjow moved, and Szayel let out a strangled breath, feeling his hand cup the front of his hakama, and he bucked into them unable to keep from moving. As Grimmjow lavished Szayel's neck with attention, nipping and sucking, he continued to stroke at Szayel's clothed crotch, feeling him harden with every passing moment.

He did not see the slightly uncomfortable expression on Szayel's face as he stared up at the ceiling before he reattached himself to Szayel's lips in a rough, hungry kiss, pressing his body against Szayel's own. Szayel moaned – a helpless sound if Grimmjow had ever heard one, and he smirked into their kiss and he kissed Szayel again, with renewed vigour.

It wasn't long before Grimmjow tugged Szayel's hakama, yanking it to his knees. Under any other circumstances, Szayel would have at the very least had the presence of mind to be indignant over the matter. He watched Grimmjow loosen his own hakama and pull himself free of it, and Szayel found himself moaning at the sight, “G-Grimmjow...”

Swiftly, Grimmjow threw Szayel's legs oer his shoulder and positioned himself at Szayel's unprepared, and tight entrance, and Szayel gasped. He reached out, putting his hands on Grimmjow's shoulders, attempting to push him away, protesting frantically “Gri-”

Any and all words were swallowed by Szayel's scream as he was penetrated, and tear sprung to his eyes unbidden. Szayel swallowed a pained sob as he grit his teeth. He could work through the pain – Szayel's sex was never usually painless anyway – but damn it if he wasn't vocal about it. He merely whimpered after a moment, when Grimmjow began to move once again. Nothing in the sexta's expression even indicated that he cared that he had hurt the scientist. It was fair enough, Szayel thought somewhat bitterly, never having expected this encounter to be anything more than an animalistic rut. There was no romance here, even Szayel as not deluded enough to think so.

It was hard to believe in that moment that even Nnoitra was gentler than this. This was a new agony. Szayel felt himself bleeding. Grimmjow growled, feeling Szayel's fingernails bury themselves deep into the skin of his shoulders, braking the skin. He didn't seem to mind as he thrust deeper into Szayel, biting into his collarbone, intent on leaving a mark and listening to Szayel cry out again.

It was only when Grimmjow's thrusts began to hit their mark that the pain turned to pleasure and Szayel sank into a haze of blissful agony, moaning wantonly with each new thrust. He felt Grimmjow grab his waist and groan, his thrusts shallow but quick – both men were building quickly toward orgasm quickly.

Szayel's hand moved to Grimmjow's back and he sank his nails into the sexta's vulnerable skin then, raking his nails along that flesh and breaking the skin, leaving trails of blood in their wake. Szayel moaned Grimmjow;s name again, rching his back tellingly, and the sexta growled, , fingers digging into the skin of Szayel's waist and breaking the skin there, his thrust speeding up again. I was't long before Szayel came, Grimmjow's name on his lips.

He slumped down onto the floor panting even as Grimmjow kept moving within him, simply riding out the waves of his orgasm. Then, with one last sharp thrust, Grimmjow tensed and moaned, coming into the octava at last. Grimmjow slumped down on top of Szayel then, catching his breath, although he made no move to pull out of Szayel as he caught his breath. Szayel was unsure how long they stayed that way, but chose to simply revel in the feeling of Grimmjow filling him so completely.

It was only when Grimmjow shifted and began to pull out that Szayel was pulled from his reverie with frown. It was all Szayel could have done in that moment to keep from whining.

Grimmjow retied his hakama under Szayel's watchful gaze, and upon realising, Grimmjow paused for a moment before he thrust his hand out to the spent scientist, offering his hand with a slight scowl. Szayel's frown, although still prominent on his features, lessened slightly as he accepted the offer after a hesitant pause. He slipped his hand into Grimmjow's with ease and was tugged to his feet none too gently. Szayel, receiving no support from Grimmjow as the man turned and matched off into another room, off the bedroom, was forced to support himself on the wall beside him.

The pain in his lower regions was back with a vengeance now that the euphoric afterglow of their sex had quite thoroughly worn off and Szayel pulled up his hakama carefully. He sighed, looking down at himself as he ran a hand through his hair, hissing as he yanked his hand through a knot. He frowned at the state of his uniform, his hakama ruined by his own seed, his shirt ripped beyond repair and his hair a complete mess. In that moment he resoled to fix himself up as soon as possible.

Of course, it was only when he scanned the room again that he remembered Ilforte. Szayel limped over to him, recalling that the blond had at the very least been semi-conscious the last time he had checked. Szayel cursed faintly at the indelicacy of it all. The least Grimmjow could have done was take him somewhere else, or better yet wait for Ilforte to breath his last like a decent man would.

To say Szayel was stunned when, upon closer inspect of his brother, he found that Ilforte was not breathing, his deep burgundy eyes half lidded and sightless, would have been an understatement. The clincher though, came when Szayel noticed a lone tear gracing his almost angelic features.

Szayel smirked.

Careful not to strain his already sensitive anatomy, Szayel bent down to pull Ilforte's limp body against his chest. _Poor thing_ , he thought as he lifted Ilforte from the bed and into his arms.  _Grimmjow was probably the only thing he thought I would never have_. He made no effort to inform the sexta that he was leaving, and carried Ilforte from the room himself, quick to leave Grimmjow's wing behind.

At least now he could work on Aizen-sama's request in peace. But even so, glancing down at the body in his arms, Szayel thought that perhaps finding out exactly what it was that had happened to Ilforte would be worth exploring, if only in his spare time. Perhaps, in this small way, Szayel could respect Ilforte's memory.


	2. Distraction

It was entirely possible that maybe, just maybe, Szayel had been exaggerating when he said that Ilforte's death was a trivial one. He knew this because as he tapped away at his computer, punching in numbers lazily and without his usual ease his mind kept wandering. The first thing Szayel had done after returning to what he liked to refer to as his palace, was palm Ilforte's lifeless body off on his nearest fracción to be taken to the morgue. The second thing he did was take a good, long bath while he waited for the soreness from his rather violent tryst with Grimmjow to recede enough that he could move comfortably.

The damage that Grimmjow had caused was not enough to bother risking either Lumina or Verona's incessant whining were he to utilising one of them to heal himself. They had pandered a him for a while when he returned, but Szayel told them sharply to find something else to do. He vaguely wondered at times why it was that the pair of them seemed so attached to him. Of course, all of his fracción were loyal, but with the exception of Lumina and Verona, and even Medazeppi none seemed to show in the way of what he might consider affection if he thought his fracción emotionally capable of such things. He had never really bothered to test his fracción's emotional capacity, taking whatever he witnessed at face-value. He knew for a fact that his fracción were incapable of deep thought, which often meant that their ability to understand emotion was limited – or at last he assumed that to be the case.

 He engineered them to obey, not think.

 Whether it was fortunate or not in this instance, Szayel was not so simple-minded. Coming back to himself he found he had ceased to work, having sunk back into his large plush chair, staring at the screen sightlessly as he thought. He sighed in irritation, bitter in the knowledge that even in death, his brother got in the way of his work. Ilforte was not supposed to die, and Szayel was most certainly not supposed to be so distracted by it.

 He sat up again and returned to making his calculations, determined to complete his assignment and please Aizen, an endeavour which so far has proved utterly fruitless. Working out the scale to which one would need to create the desired shield would be useless, although Szayel had his theories regardless, without a material to create an ideal barrier from. Different materials and method had different variables to consider.

 Gifted as he was working with reiatsu, Szayel knew enough about them to know that a shinigami's use of kidou was crude at best, albeit extremely effective. Their natural abilities meant that they could utilise spiritual energy and of course, develop a way in which to break down barriers such as the one Aizen had in mind. Of course, in doing so they rob the spirit particles of their power and rendering them inert. Szayel however, prided himself on the fact that he had devised a way, a long time ago now, to revert spirit particles to their original state, allowing them to keep their supply of energy and never one becoming useless to Szayel.

 This thought, in a way, is what led him to his current hypothesis. He was unable to devise a way to keep shinigami from entering Las Noches with a barrier created using reiatsu. That said, he could stall for a significant amount of time and devise what would essentially become an early warning system. By keeping the particles moving, he would be able to keep the shinigami from finding a weak point in the reiatsu to focus their energy. Any damage caused would almost instantly be repaired. The particles would of course, be drawn in by what would amount to an electromagnetic field, in the most basic of terms. Of course, that is the most liable comparison for the device Szayel though he would have to construct. No doubt it would take several atempts and adjustments to keep the spirit particles from escaping back into Hueco Mundo's atmosphere once again. Such a thing would be tedious, Szayel realised. The most practical way of doing so would be to waste time building a machine which may not work at all.

 Szayel did not relish the task.

 Slowly, Szayel stopped tapping away at the keyboard, his fingers absently running along the edge of the panel. It had taken him three days to form a theory that was shaky at best. His mind quite clearly elsewhere, Szayel chose to stop working for the day and with a push of a few more brought up a series of windows, all from various points within not only his palace but the rest of Las Noches as well.

 For a moment, his eyes lingered on one camera, the entrance to his palace. He had no visitors, not that he was expecting any. Then his attention moved to a camera set on the underside of his table in the meeting hall, across from Nnoitra, whose chair was currently unoccupied. He never expected anything from that camera, although he was occasionally afforded a view of Nnoitra's more flattering attributes...although his face was good too. He had placed it there during one of his first meetings as an Espada, and it served him well during his brief period of time spent as a Privaron Espada. He found the audio material more useless now that he was once again an Espada, and did not need to rely on subterfuge to gain access to information. Other than Nnoitra, the view consisted of Wonderweiss crawling underneath the table for no discernible reason and making unintelligible noises.

 Finding nothing of interest however, Szayel sighed and stood, making sure to turn his monitors off as he did so. He moved out of his lab, mentally cursing his inability to focus on his work as he moved through the corridors until he came to a room possessing of large double doors. He placed his hands on the cold steel door handle and pushing it open just enough to allow his small frame through the doorway, only to lean heavily against it as it closed behind him. The room, unlike many within Las Noches was not as minimalistic as usual. Like Grimmjow, Szayel owned a bed with a thick mattress and soft, thick white sheets. For all the time Szayel spent hard at work, he did not skimp on comfort where he could find it. The dainty metal bedframe was painted white, which gave the bed a distinctly feminine vibe, not that Szayel minded. The pink through at the end of the bed only served to emphasise that assessment.

 Szayel couldn't help but laugh softly, moving to take a seat at the foot of the bed, running his gloved had along the soft, pink fabric. This was the only object of sentimental value that Szayel possessed. Aizen had made a gift of it the very day he had entered the world of the Arrancar, before he was given clothes, taking the time to wrap it around the pink-haired man's shoulders himself, offering him a smile.

 Szayel had been drunk on Aizen at the time. He remembered the haze of his thoughts in the moments after his transformation. He basked in Aizen's reiatsu. He recalled blindly reaching out to touch Aizen, clinging weakly to his legs from where he sat crumbled at Aizen's feet. Aizen did not react except to run his hand through Szayel's hair affectionately, if only briefly.

 It did not take long for Szayel to figure out that any and all of Aizen's affection was calculated and deliberate.

 Yanking himself away from thoughts of Aizen, Szayel's gaze ran over the long table that ran almost the entire length of the right side of the room, littered with knick-knacks and half-forgotten gadgets and gizmos that Szayel only toyed with when he was bored out of his mind. The window above the bed allowed false light to stream into the room, landing on the circular rug in the middle of the room which was also, unsurprisingly, pink. Thankfully even in the morning, the position of the bed meant that the light would never fall directly onto Szayel's face. A book shelf on the right side of the room went largely ignored, simply because the books themselves were often 'gifted' to Szayel by Gin, who thought it entertaining to give Szayel works of fiction. Szayel never could figure out why he bothered. On either side of that bookshelf however, were two doors, one leading into a rather pleasant bathroom and another, which led to a walk-in wardrobe.

 Szayel lay back then, staring up at the ceiling as he frowned, unable to escape the thought of Grimmjow in that moment. Szayel knew he must have looked afraid, not having left his tower since his encounter with Grimmjow. That of course, was not the case. He had merely had no reason to leave his tower, having been so absorbed in his work. No-one had requested his assistance or called a meeting and there would not be any outdoor experiments for a while yet. Szayel couldn't help but wonder if he still hurt, or if he only thought he did, because it had been a while since someone had had him in that way. Szayel was not traumatised by any stretch of the imagination, and found that instead he felt somewhat liberated, even if he had only stopped limping recently. Szayel's stress levels had been at what he felt was an all-time high.

 Rolling onto his side, curling up onto the bed, face half-buried in his throw, Szayel huffed. As childish as it was, he blamed Grimmjow and Ilforte for his lack of focus. The idea of Grimmjow prancing about pretending as if nothing ever happened while Szayel agonised over both their encounter and thoughts of what might have caused Ilforte's untimely death infuriated him. Grimmjow wasn't even liable to regard their interaction as significant. He would be lying to himself if he said his thoughts had not returned against and again to his brother, laying on his own personal slab in Szayel's morgue.

 Szayel's eyes fluttered closed slowly, exhaustion overcoming him in that moment, even as he frowned and his thoughts whirled around wildly in his head, one being that he had not slept in a bed for over a week. Aizen had given Szayel one month to complete his project. He gave himself one week, three days of which had already been spent on the theory and and the rest would of course be devoted to designing the machine. The two weeks that follow were meant for the building of the actual machine itself and the extra week should accommodate travel between locations. Las Noches was massive, larger than most people comprehend. Not even Szayel, in all his time in the fortress, had been able to explore every nook and cranny. Travelling between locations could take most of the day, even with the use of sonido at his disposal.

 Between the reiatsu shield, Grimmjow and Ilforte, Szayel would have thought the whole situation was torture. Deliberate mental torture. If he wasn't so sure of himself, Szayel would have thought this to be one of Ichimaru Gin's 'fun' little games, but no. It was all a coincidence. Too many instances which had no connection one way or the other. Gin tended to leave clues and threads to lead people on, ones which Szayel was always careful to avoid.

 Opening his eyes, Szayel sat up slowly, scoff at himself. He wanted to give in to sleep for once, but knew he would be unable to unless he took care of these distractions, one by one. So, pushing himself tiredly to his feet, Szayel sighed to himself, making his way to the morgue as he ran a hand through his hair, collecting himself. He did not have to go far to find the morgue, down a flight of stairs and down a long, dark corridor until he came to a heavy metal door that slid open as he approached. Stepping inside, Szayel looked back a the door distastefully when he realised that it shut slowly – too slowly. The door way heavy and closed with an obnoxious thud that grated on the scientist's nerves. Yet another thing to add to his to-do list: fix the door.

 Szayel wandered over to a gurney, pulling it along beside him as he scanned the names on some of the cold chambers until he found Ilforte's and pulled it open. The corpse rolled out on the cabinet in front of him, pal with death and cold to the touch. Dispassionately, Szayel removed his gloves only to replace them with disposable latex gloves and pulled by body onto the gurney by the sheet that lay under it, closing the freezer again. Then, he took Ilforte into another room off to the side, an operating room.

 Seeing the room after so long made Szayel smiled to himself. It had been some time since he had been in the morgue or even an operating room. He vaguely thought that he should be harsher in his punishments with Lumina and Verona. That might give him more of an excuse to engage in something he enjoyed more often.

 Taking a moment to appreciate the smell of disinfectant and sterility of his lab, Szayel, he rolled Ilforte's body into the operating room, where he put it on the large metallic table in the middle of the room. With practised ease, Szayel gathered the necessary tools he required for the autopsy, placing them on a tray when he set at his side ready for use. For an instant, Szayel felt superior, as he knew he always was, looking down his nose at his brother's naked form. Ilforte had always been disappointing and the current circumstances only served to prove that.

 Ilforte lay with his eyes closed. His features were remarkable peaceful, still and pale with death. Ilforte's pale blonde locks fell here and there, draped elegantly over his shoulders. At least Szayel could say that his brother was beautiful. When it was divulged that their pair were siblings, most had to do a double-take. Some even dismissed the news as lies. It was tue enough that in appearance, Szayel and Ilforte had very little in common when it came to their colouring. Where Szayel was pale, with strange pink hair and golden fire in his eyes, Ilforte was skin more tanned, his eyes a deep burgundy and his hair longer and drastically different in shade. No, Szayel realised. Their similarities lay in their features. They shared height and even weight. Their noses were long and thin, very fine indeed. The shape of their eyes were the same and their lips were thin yet somehow still so inviting. They even shared a birthday, not that anyone would believe them were they to be told. Szayel had always been vaguely disappointed that he was the second born, but not once had he ever envied Ilforte anything.

 That said, both men were somewhat effeminate, that much Szayel was not blind to. It was something he could not ignore when he had been called 'Miss' or 'Lady' on more than one occasion in the past, however accidentally. Of course, there was the more usual method of blatant mockery, although only other Espada, or jumped-up adjuchas arrancar dared speak to him in such a manner. It did however, vex Szayel that he could be mistaken for a women given that he wore such a tight uniform, not that he couldn't turn the whole issue to his advantage.

 Szayel frowned a little, shifting to perch on the edge of the operating table, briefly entertaining the thought that in comparison to one another, Szayel was like a porcelain doll in comparison to Ilforte, who was like some sort of exotic beast. Grimmjow's interest, Szayel would admit, was not unwarranted. Szayel traced a path over Ilforte's face, from his eyes to his cheek to the bridge of his nose and along his jaw. On a whim he leant down to press a kiss to Ilforte's forehead. “Foolish brother,” he whispered more to himself than Ilforte; and before he could think twice, he lowered his head compulsively, attaching his lips to Ilforte's in a soft, motionless kiss. “You look so pathetic right now,” he said softly, lips hovering just above Ilforte's own.

 Szayel stayed like that for several minutes, before he stood slowly and returned to work. The autopsy was over and done with in a matter of a few hours. It was a relief, Szayel thought as he walked down the corridors, looking over his finding once again as he leafed through the file in his hands.

 Ilforte although it was not immediately, or visibly obvious, had been suffering from malnutrition. It seemed entirely likely that Ilforte had not been eating, or had been unable to do around the time he had apparently fallen ill. As well as that, Szayel had discovered a small, obviously infected wound on the small of Ilforte's back. It looked no bigger than a knife wound, and the cut was clean. Now, Szayel knew that the infection itself would not have been enough to kill Ilforte, or at least it wouldn't have if his immune system had not already been weak from malnutrition. Szayel could see no other reason for Ilforte's sudden demise. He had even his reiatsu over the mysterious wound, to check for anomalies and found nothing. This of course, raised questions in Szayel's mind about Ilforte's apparent lack of concern for his own well-being.

 He entered into another room on an upper level, tossing the file onto a lifeless computer panel as he sunk deeply into the computer chair that sat before it, quietly frustrated as he fingered the material absent-mindedly. The autopsy had been a waste of time, Szayel concluded, frowning. He had thought he might find something of interest, but instead discovered that for whatever reason, his brother had been abusing himself.

 Curing up in his chair, legs tucked to one side, Szayel sighed and pulled the file back toward him, flipping through it again, reading over the notes made in his own sketchy handwriting, slowly. He was not even absorbing the text, his thoughts instead dwelling on his brother. After the autopsy was complete, Szayel sat beside the operating table, Ilforte's wrist clutched tightly in his hands as he held his brother's arm against his lips, so, so tempting to bite into the waiting flesh. He wanted so badly to take what he could from Ilforte, his reiatsu, his strength, keep it for himself. He was still as he breathed against that flesh, debating whether or no the amount of reiatsu he would gain, if any, was enough to close the gap between himself and Zommari Leroux. He doubted it, but the thought of outranking Zommari was a delicious one. He doubted Ilforte was strong enough, and he did not want to alarm the other Espada and unduly invite hostility. He and Nnoitra often invited ire, almost as often as Grimmjow, because many of the other Espada seemed to think they did not know their place.

 Szayel knew on some level that his desire for his brother's flesh was more primal and instinctual than necessary. Although Arrancar are free from fears of regression, thanks to Aizen, they still felt hunger. Szayel himself managed to maintain his appetite with his own fracción, although he was never completely satisfied. Aizen had even ruled that we must not consume our allies, no matter how annoying they might be. That said, he never ruled out eating the dead one either, so why was it that when Szayel sank his teeth into Ilforte's arm was he unable to break the skin?

 That was something even Szayel couldn't fathom. He could lick, taste and smell Ilforte to his heart's content, savouring his sweet skin and the texture of it against his tongue and relish the lingering scent of his reiatsu. He could not, however, rip and tear flesh from bone, couldn't rip his brother to shred the way he kept telling himself to. Never.

 But soon enough, Szayel returned to his senses and had dropped the arm, disgusted. He felt inexplicably relieved to have gone against himself when he determined that the cause of death had been a fatal infection. The last thing he needed or waned as to become ill himself, and who knew what that tainted flesh could have done.

  _They can't do shit for him_.

 That is what Grimmjow had said.

 Szayel thought that either Grimmjow had been lying or the infection was more serious than he had previously suspected; especially if the medical staff were so incompetent that they could not cure Ilforte. Szayel would give it to them that Ilforte's condition was serious by the time he had come to them, and a misdiagnosis was certainly within the realms of possibility, as Ilforte's malnutrition likely threw them off the sent. They had been unable to treat the infection, but had given no thought as to why, no doubt.

 The wound on his back could not have been self-inflicted, of that Szayel was certain, but he did not know just how long Ilforte had been abusing himself. Why had be not seen tot he wound sooner? It was small enough that it should have been a trivial thing, and yet the wound had not closed, although the bleeding had obviously stopped long before death. There was nothing in all of Las Noches or Hueco Mundo that could cause such a wound. So, the obvious conclusion was that Grimmjow was lying about something, but what about? Grimmjow was not a good liar. He had never seen the need and, of course, that meant he was out of practice.

 Szayel of course, could spot a liar from a mile away, given he was no stranger to the concept, and he knew one in Grimmjow.

 Scoffing, Szayel threw the file back down onto the computer panel, and felt the thrill of annoyance as it flickered to life in his fit of temper. He leant forward, quickly pushing the file away so that he might tap a button swiftly, killing the power. He frowned, unable to escape the thoughts of the autopsy. The more he endeavoured not to think on it, the more his curiosity played on his mind. There was something so inherently _fascinating_ about the entire subject.

 It was something of a last-ditch attempt at distraction when Szayel stood quickly and made his way fluidly out of his palace. It was twenty minutes before Szayel found his way into the main building – the epicentre of the Arrancar community. Everything happened here – meetings, gathering, even fights. These were facilities for the Arrancar's more humanly functions. For example: a canteen was built in the centre of the structure on the ground floor, for those that needed sustenance. There were communal bath houses and shower rooms. There were even courtyards and training facilities. Both Ulquiorra and Szayel often frequented the library in what little free time they had. But it was not books that brought Szayel here. He was there for one thing: Grimmjow.

 Szayel wandered at his own pace, going nowhere in particular as he searched for the Sexta, but knew he would be somewhere nearby. Grimmjow liked the activity and would not be far from the noise, even if he was no in the thick of it. As he walked, he couldn't help but notice the way some of the weaker Arrancar dived out of his way as he walked by, while some outright stuck themselves to a nearby wall, all intent on not catching the Octava's interest. Szayel's reputation was not a pleasant one.

 Soon enough a familiar fracción rounded a corner, and Szayel's gaze round him immediately. As if to sense his gaze, said fracción raised his head, pausing mid-step. “Tesla-kun,” Szayel cooed, too sweetly as he walked over to meet him.

 To his credit, Tesla did not even flinch at the tone, or the familiar greet and instead bowed politely. “Szayel Aporro-sama,” he said in return as he straightened up, looking slightly disgruntled as he ran a hand through his hair.

 Where is Nnoitra?” Szayel asked, getting straight to the point. When it came to Tesla, Szayel could appreciate that the young man was attractive, even with his eye-patch and dirty blond hair. The problem was that he was ever so dull.

 The sudden change in tone put Tesla out of sorts for a moment, looking somewhat perturbed. “Nnoutra-sama is-”

 “Good bug your own fracción, Szayel,” Szayel heard as the man in question rounded the corner from which Tesla had just come. Szayel smirked, mentally applauding Nnoitra. His ability to mask his reiatsu had improved markedly. He watched at Nnoitra leant back against the wall, grinning at Szayel.

 Szayel chuckled faintly, “I missed you too, Nnoitra,” he commented playfully. His gaze flickered to Tela for a moment, and catching the look, the fracción moved swiftly to the side. It was only then that Szayel moved, standing closer to Nnoitra.

 The faintly suspicious look on Nnoitra's face amused Szayel, but he simply waited for Nnoitra to speak. “What do ya' want?” He knew as well as Szayel did that the scientist did not make a habit of actively seeking him out, so it was not unsurprising that Nnoitra was wary of his motives.

 “I was wondering if you would be so gracious as to help me look for someone...”

 


End file.
